PART 1
I never warned my mother-in-law that my daughter, whom she treated like a stray dog, held the ultimate power to exile her from our lives completely. On Christmas morning, she handed the other grandchildren thick envelopes of cash and brand new iPads, but handed my seven year old daughter a cheap drugstore candle tagged with the words To Brandon’s Girl. The entire dining room went dead silent. My daughter rose gracefully in her gold dress, completely calm and regal. Grandma, my dad told me to give this to you if you ever ignored me again, she said softly as she handed over a small red box. Open it, my husband said quietly, and when his mother opened it, she let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Gene’s grand dining room looked picture perfect in that specific way a room looks when every single person inside it is holding their breath. Pine garlands draped heavily over the mahogany doorway while cinnamon rolls cooled slowly under aluminum foil on the sideboard. The crystal chandelier flashed brightly against polished silver napkin rings, while outside, a small American flag tapped rhythmically against the porch railing in the freezing winter wind.
Inside that house, everyone was well aware of Gene’s golden rule, which was to smile, stay incredibly polite, and never challenge her authority when she decided someone needed to be put back in their place.
That particular Christmas, she decided her target was my seven year old daughter, Holly.
